


Pathetic Fallacy

by Nimravidae



Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Canon Era, Emotions (tm), Hand & Finger Kink, Historical Inaccuracy, I just wanted them to cuddle, Insecure Alexander, M/M, Navigating Hard Feelings, Older Man/Younger Man, Rimming, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing Clothes, Tender Sex, There really isn't much of a plot, Very Insecure Washington, borderline pornographic descriptions of hands, cuddling by the fire, feel good, nothing bad happens, undeclared love, unreasonable amounts of nature symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 04:28:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6641464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nimravidae/pseuds/Nimravidae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i> “Sir?” He asks, though it is clear there isn’t much on the other end of that query so instead of responding Washington elects to kiss him again. </i><br/>Falling in love with his most trusted aide-de-camp was hardly what Washington had anticipated happening, but the man looks like a masterpiece with the tongue of a viper. How can he say no to him, how could he ever say no to him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pathetic Fallacy

**Author's Note:**

> Oh boy. All my thanks go to [Iniquiticity](http://iniquiticity.tumblr.com/) and [Ji](http://crying-of-lot-37.tumblr.com/) for letting me rant about sharing cloaks and being _lovely_

Summer had bled through, the aches and ages of passing time wrought with the sticky sanguine of blood-marked footprints traipsing across from camp to camp, battle to battle, with hardly a moment's breath to note the changing seasons. Men were lost to heat and battle and illness that ravaged the camps each endless rainfall - even Alexander had not been spared the bouts of fever he seemed to suffer each July but he did recover. He always recovered - much to the chagrin of some and delight of others.

It would not be incorrect to wager that a moment's respite in the past months had been a rare encounter - which made the cooling autumn evening all the more alluring. It was the first day that the ground had been truly dry after their most recent rainfall and there were plenty of promises on the coming wind that suggested this nice day will not last onto the next. The leaves had begun to stain themselves an array of warm ocher and auburn's, catching on a gently cool breeze to rattle and float along down. The sun would not begin to set for a while and already the lingering heat of the day was starting to ebb and fade - but not so much that a shady spot under one particularly large tree would go ignored by any who saw it.

Which is why - with its sweeping, yellowing, leaves swaying in each whisper of a wind that rolled off the nearby river (not close enough to see, but should all stay silent - the babbling of the water against stones would just be audible above gentle breaths) - this particular weeping willow was currently offering its shade to a man.

He sits with one leg tucked under himself, reclining with his shoulders and head against the rough bark and his usually sharp, combative eyes shut. His chest rises and falls with the steadiness of a sleeping man but his lips form words that remain silent to anyone but himself - either recounting or responding to the letter, which lies creased a top his folded jacket beside him, in his mind.

It is a rare moment in which he looks so very much at peace - hair falling loose from his queue to cling to the bark, arms crossed over his chest for lack of anywhere else to have them, his shoulders slack and not squared to make his narrow frame appear any larger than he really is. Such quiet moments are so lacking in times of war, such moments in which one can nearly feel the Earth beneath their feet twist gently upon her axis, which is why the only intruder upon this moment remains silent as he observes.

“Is there more you wish for me to do, your Excellency?” Asks the man from his place beneath the tree - for a moment nearly startling the intruder, who - now that he has been discovered - walks closer.

Washington soaks in the sight like he is watching the sun rise over the field after a vicious, perhaps victories, battle - Alexander still hasn’t turned to look at him fully, nor has he even opened his eyes. “There is not,” he admits following a moment of silence, “I came looking for a place of quiet and rest to contemplate - but it would appear that I am intruding on yours. Apologies, Colonel.”

“Stay,” He says - this time surprising Washington. He had seemed so peaceful and content that he was sure he would be nodded out - but the invitation had sounded far less like an invitation and more like a request. And it would be far from polite to refuse, Washington justifies, especially when most other places have long since been claimed.

So he unclasps the heavy cloak that still hangs from his shoulders, the noise finally urging Alexander to open at least one eye and glance back at him. It’s warm and calm - far from what Washington is used to seeing from such a man as Alexander. The fabric is thick in his hands and - well - it would be far easier were he not to stain his breeches by dirt and grass, so he lies it out down beside Alexander. His knees give an unpleasant creaking noise as he lowers himself to sit, leaving ample space both between himself and the other man as well as on the cloak itself. “Thank you for allowing me to join you,” his eyes watch the leaves sway and rustle together in a lovely sort of music for just a moment before he lets them drift closed. It is a familiar moment, a familiar wash of a breeze over him, familiar scent of decaying leaves replacing the scent of decaying flesh that accompanies such a war - for a moment it is almost like pretending. Like pretending there is no British officer waiting for his head to be served to him, like there is no blood soaking and staining the Earth forever more. No cannon or musket fire to be listened for, no more rough cots and pathetic meals - no more betrayals or heart aches at the hands of his men.

For the moment that the wind brushed through his hair, Washington could let his mind escape back to Virginia, Mount Vernon - Martha and the gardens and his entire estate.  Perhaps - his mind teases him, he could find time to simply ride. No - no he could not. Reality presses back gently down on his shoulders with the ever-present weight of a budding nation and he sighs a deep and sad sound.

“Sir?” He opens his eyes again to find, this time, Alexander looking directly at him. He must have moved himself over onto the cloak as well, either for want of closeness or to attempt to forgo any further damage to the seat of his breeches Washington is sure he will never know.

“Yes, Hamilton?” He tilts his head to look at the young aide. It isn’t proper, he knows, to see him as such. Yes, he is dressed properly (the jacket can be forgiven, he had been dismissed and Washington was pressing into his private moments) but there is something else within in. With his hair awry, his eyes dimmed with relaxation and ease and his frame no longer strained for power - it feels strangely as intimate if he were to watch him as he sleeps.

Open - is the word he strains for. Honest. Not that Alexander ever lacked in the ladder, of course, he is so bitterly and bitingly honest with that tongue sharper than the blade of a knife and a wit to match. But here he smiles, a faint twitch of otherwise stern lips as his gaze glints back to what Washington is far more accustomed to and trails up to Washington’s head. “A leaf.”

“Pardon?”

“The wind seems to have elected to place a leaf upon your head, your Excellency,” he explains and there’s something burning deep within Washington’s chest that only ever coils this hot when Martha presses her fingertips to his jaw and strains herself upwards to close the distance between them. He is having troubles keeping the soft curl of his own lip tampered downward as he glances up  - as if he could cast a look towards the offending bit of nature.

“Would you?” He asks as he tilts his head forward, making it his most pressing duty to not watch the confusion that creeps up the young man for a moment before his thin fingers reach out to quickly pluck the leaf from Washington’s head. It is far from the first time he has seen those fingers doing anything - but having them so close, passing into the field of his vision just near enough for him to see the dirt under his trimmed nails, that was a rarity. Normally, Washington simply steals his glances whenever the man is so taken by his work he fails to notice his own General’s gaze watching as delicate fingers wrap around his pen and how his narrow wrist alternates between short jerks and large swooping movements.

Or as Alexander tapped one finger against his rough and hobbled together desk in a quick staccato rhythm whenever Washington was entertaining complaints or thoughts that the young man actively disagreed with - but not so much so that he would open his mouth. They are wonderful things, Alexander’s fingers, he thinks. He has even been privy to a moment in which the man had pricked the pad of one against a sharp edge of wood and - with a quick instinct - pressed the small injury to his lips. Washington would replay that image of Alexander’s finger caught just so between his lips as he pressed his tongue against the small stab of pain with little more than a grunting hiss. It was indeterminable to say how long he spent before he finally had accepted that Washington was fantasizing about what it would be like to take those fingers between his own lips. Tasting the salt of his skin and the ink that ever stains them, he thinks it would be such an encounter that he craves to simply press his lips to each one of those smart digits; he craves to kiss him, every single inch of his skin. It even briefly flashes to what it would be like to take one between his lips, to suck around it and let his teeth catch over the rise of his knuckle for just a moment. Would he gasp? Would he whimper with want?

It is improper.

So very improper, but he has been staring for so long as Alexander averts his eyes and instead fixates on the leaf - it was hardly still green, yellowed edges curling in on itself. He twirls it between those fingers that have so enraptured Washington and through the edge of his vision Washington can see his throat work in a swallow. “If I may, your Excellency, why have you sought out a place of contemplation? Has there been a development that requires such a thorough deliberation by yourself?”

Like the snapping of a whip, Washington is brought back to the present moment and - somewhere on the air the smoke is no longer a friendly scent of heating homes but a reminder of a camp that lies just beyond his sight. He can hear distant shouting - jovial, he is sure - and singing and the reminder that they are at war and at war, there is no place for silly fascination with young aides. The question rolls off him, however, as he settles himself back with no troubles, “No, no - there has not been a moment of respite in the recent months. I simply wanted to lay claim to this one while I still could.”

“If that is the truth, your Excellency, I apologize for disturbing your peace.”

“It was I who disturbed yours, Hamilton,” he reminds, like a gentle prod. “You had made yourself quite at ease here and I - rather selfishly - inserted myself into it.”

“You are the General, still - if you wished me to relinquish the shade of this particular tree I would have no choice but to obey.” Washington is swarmed with the thought of Alexander strictly obeying the order to get out from under a tree so that Washington may lie beneath it instead. In the end, he would, but not without a substantial battle that hardly seems like it would ever be worth the fight.

“There is plenty shade and calm for the pair of us, I do believe,” he says instead, shifting down the cloak more so that he may lie across his back. His hands crossed behind his head to form something of a pillow, the sunlight filtering between branches as it starts to cool to the glowing softness that preludes the pinks and purples of the sunset. “You know, I once spent an afternoon not unlike this one doing just this very thing with the Marquis?”

Alexander casts him a look that Washington elects to make no attempt to place before he sets the leaf down beside the folded letter - half-tucked into the edge of his jacket - before he lies beside Washington, curling on his side to face him. His old heart nearly cracks with the suddenness in which it stops - he lies so close that the lingering edges of his body’s heat could be felt through layers of clothing but not so that they may risk touching. “He told me, and nearly everyone else at camp, you two discussed General Lee that day.”

A chuckle rises up from his chest, rusted around the edges with such an unused noise but it doesn’t seem to cause Alexander much to mind as some flushing look quickly paints itself over his expression; it is much in the same way a woman would flush if she suddenly found herself alone with the man courting her - gentle and almost nervous in nature. He hastens to set the man at ease, though, not wanting to linger towards mortification, “I am sure he believes we did. The Marquis was fast asleep by the time I settled myself down beside him, the heat and the battle exhausted us all, I would admit that I was asleep rather quickly following him. We spoke of General Lee come morning, however, so that I may have gleamed more facts from the incident.”

Alexander seems to accept this, inching slightly closer. Tentative - as though he were a feral kitten attempting to approach the food laid down by a strange newcomer. Washington - for all he knows of taming animals - remains still as he can.

The payoff was the gentle press of Alexander’s thigh against his own - a notable and firm contact followed swiftly by an arm against his side. For a moment, he had forgotten how small Alexander was, slender and just a few inches shorter than the average of the men - and compared to Washington himself? He spares a glance his way, finding the young man staring resolutely at the skies as though it had offended him in some way, that hardened and determined look back in those brilliant eyes. Alexander looks so focused, so intent and for a moment Washington was at an complete loss as to just  _ why.  _ Realization swiftly takes root, though, as the man shifts just a fraction of an inch closer to him and - ah, his boy, his aid-de-camp, his most trusted and valuable Alexander - with all the charm and  _ appetite _ of a feral tomcat is attempting to sink those claws of his into him. Or at least, he is testing the waters to see if such a solicitation would be received well and Washington may just find that perfectly… fascinating.

Rather improper, risky and very nearly edging on the wrong side of stupid - but fascinating. Washington had dreamed of him in such ways of course, had let his mind wander to those lips that never seemed to stop moving and let that part of his mind linger on the idea of what they would feel like against his skin. Alexander has very beautiful lips and such a tongue for words that would be best suited to other endeavors - he often thinks and here he is, his chest rising and falling with such a sharp movement that it is clear he has been rendered painfully anxious by Washington’s well-noted stoicism. It is improper - for a man of his advanced age and rank to lord such power over a young Colonel and to take advantage of that power? Unspeakable.

“It is warm still,” Washington says after a moment, the sudden break in silence making the limbs against his own jerk in surprise. He shrinks back - much to the General’s displeasure - as the larger man sits up, his fingers dancing along the buttons of his jacket, “I trust you will not be offended should I unburden myself?”

“Of course not, your Excellency,” Alexander says just a moment too quickly, before the knot in his throat works itself up and down in a swallow and he glances away, possibly feeling the sting of an assumed rejection, “the breeze soothes the heat away but once it has stilled…”

The thought drifts off and Washington finished it for him, “then we are left alone with just the merciless sun.”

A nod. “Yes, your Excellency.”

Washington folds his jacket carefully and lays it down where he head was and sighs as another stiff wind rolls through their quiet and sequestered moment. “There. That is much more agreeable, do you think?”

Alexander swallows again and keeps his eyes fixated on a strand of grass in a way Washington thinks he may believe is subtle. “If you are more comfortable, then it is more agreeable,” he says, shifting away from Washington as he lies back down this time. Wild and unsure of himself in a way Alexander must surely be wholly unused to feeling - Washington wishes he didn’t know the boy well enough to be so aware that to simply take him by the lips would lead him to flee. Because oh, how does he wish to do just that - to entrap him in a cage of limbs, hover his larger frame above that small one and press his lips against Alexander’s until the boy is rendered breathless and flushed and hot under Washington’s hands and grinding himself up against his leg so that Washington may feel  - he stops that thought there.

Tampering down the cold rush of arousal, Washington closes his eyes as he pillows his head on his folded pile of clothing again.

He pretends not to notice Alexander watching him, pretends not to notice the rippling tide of anxiety that swells into disappointment and fear right at the crest before sinking back away. He does a good job, he thinks, as Alexander settles back down beside him and slowly - slowly - the sun begins to set around them on the lingering edge of their silence. Washington does not say another word, but listens as Alexander’s breathing evens out puff by puff until he is sure the aide has fallen asleep - the fingers of one hand, fallen from it’s place in his relaxation, just hardly brushes the edges of Washington’s shirt. As though he were reaching for him in some subconscious nature.

The sun lingers above the rise of the horizon when Washington muffles a grunt of effort to push himself up. He pulls back on the rest of his uniform, making himself look as proper as can be and lets his gaze linger down. Alexander had sprawled out more on his back, one booted foot hardly reaching the edge of the greatcloak - his jaw slack with a small snore and fingers occasionally twitching as if he was gesturing in his dreams. He had picked up a few mumbled half-comprehensible words, though would it be a surprise to a single man in their army that Alexander Hamilton would speak in his sleep? Not to any reasonable man, Washington thinks as he gently gathers the boys things - tucking the leaf and the letter into the pocket of his own jacket so they may not be blown away by the rising winds. He worries just faintly that this will bring a storm - it certainly smells as though rain is just around the corner, but does not linger on the thought.

Washington briefly entertains the idea of carrying him back, scooping up the boy and bringing him to his own quarters to rest in a proper bed but he is too aware that would be met with a violent assertion that Alexander is not a  _ child _ and - despite his stature - is in fact a fully grown adult who is capable of caring for his own self. Besides, it is a rare enough sight to see Alexander asleep that the very thought of disturbing it is hardly negotiable. So instead, Washington lets his back protest how long he had stayed on the hard grounds and leans to take the end of the cloak he had been lying on and fold it over the sleeping form. In just the same moment, Alexander turns on his side - face contorting into an upset little frown before he groans out a sleepy  _ mrrrr _ sound and settles back with one arm slung up over the make-shift blanket.

Finally, Washington takes up Alexander’s folded jacket, brushing off any loose debris and dirt and works it under the sleeping man's head to the best of his abilities. When he steps back to examine his handiwork, his heart aches - if only he could call some painter to sketch the scene before him so that he may keep it forever in his breast pocket. Alexander asleep, burying his nose in Washington’s greatcloak and giving some sort of content and sleepy sigh. Forget the nights he spends watching Alexander write or argue or talk or drink and laugh - this is what Washington wants to keep cherished in his mind from that moment on until the very end of his days.

It takes every inch of willpower within his body, but he turns and he walks away feeling as though he has truly made a mistake.

**_# # # # #_ **

“Your Excellency, General Washington, sir?”

It takes him a moment to spare a glance up from his correspondence, but when he does, Washington manages to tame his look of surprise. The man before him, Lieutenant Colonel Tench Tilghman, holds a rather hastily-folded bundle of black fabric and a rather confused expression. “Can I help you?”

“Hammie - he left this for you, and asked me to pass on the word that should you be requiring him this morning - well, he will be found in his tent.”

Of course. “Was there a note with my cloak?” He asks, slightly curious as to if that was all Alexander had left him with and he withholds a disappointed sigh as Tilghman shakes his head and offers the negative. “Anything else, Colonel.”

“One last message, your Excellency, it rather seems like it may storm. Shall I send for Hamilton?”

Should he? It is clear that if he did not appear of his own volition then he does not wish to make an appearance - and yet, Washington’s eyes fall down to the stack of newly opened correspondence and already his fingers ache from both the coming storm and the thought of so much writing. He tries to convince himself it is for wholly unselfish reasons and only that this is what Alexander was hired to do that he sighs, “If you would. Beyond that, you are dismissed.”

He scatters into the rising winds that buffet the walls of the cramped building that houses his cramped headquarters, leaving the cloak on a small table. The black fabric spills over the edge and Washington can only recall his indecision once again from the afternoon before, between not wanting to intrude upon Alexander's space inside his tent to leave the letter (most likely from Laurens considering how well and tightly creased and folded it is) or to hold onto it until the next day and risk Alexander thinking he had read his personal correspondence. In the end, he left the letter simply on the same table that Tilghman had left his cloak - the object now covering it so wholly. The leaf remains by his bedside and were Washington to claim that he had not thought of it, thought of Alexander's hand outstretched towards him, both as he reached for the leaf and also as he slept. He curses himself, knowing so well that Alexander’s hand was haunting his thoughts still, palm up and fingers curved ever so slightly inward, he could have touched it. Dragged one of his own rough and calloused fingers down the center of his palm or cupped it between his own, laced their fingers together to witness the sheer difference in size and construction.

He examines his own hands for a moment, roughened by work and weathered by age they are cracked with lines and scars. His nails remain neatly trimmed at the edge of not-too-long but rather thick and strong fingers, a vast difference to Alexander's, a very vast difference. His own palms were just as worn, thick callouses built up over the years, but they were dry and warm and never once did Martha complain when he swept his hands over her skin - but then it would take more than simple rough hands to make Martha complain, he supposes.

That line of thought consumes him as he tries to conjure up the memory that accompanies the aged scar just below his thumb, missing the door opening, the familiar grumbling at at least two throat-clearings from the sopping man before him. It isn’t until he sighs, a long and exhausted noise, that Washington looks up and it would appear the storm that was anticipated had certainly reached camp. Or someone had taken it upon themselves to clean Washington’s aid-de-camp themselves with a bucket of water upturned over his head.

“How,” Alexander says, that hesitant warmth that was housed in his voice just the night before gone without a single trace and instead replaced by a bitter teeth-gritting hiss, “may I be of service to you, your Excellency.”

He stands there, dripping onto the floor, looking a cross between humiliated and furious that Washington knows rather well. The General sighs at the sight, a sad part of himself accepting that the quiet had passed like the calm and he was to weather this storm like he did every other, and pushes himself up from his desk, crossing in front of it with his hands folded behind his back. “The first thing you may do for me is find yourself up to my private room. You are of no use to anyone should you come down with fever, and I will not have you… dripping onto the letters I am to send to Congress.”

“And what am I to do there?”

“Wait for me.” He says, flat, hardly acknowledging Alexander's grimace as the young man shivers his way towards the stairs. It may be warm but the edge of a chill has started to seep into the air, and being so thoroughly dampened by the rain could not be of any help. Washington attempts to fight down all the rising thoughts of ways he can ensure Alexander may be very, very warm. He folds back the letter he was reading, leaving it upon the table before following up the stairs. Washington makes a short stop to find a towel, carrying it back to the room draped over his arm like he were a common servant instead of a dignified and honorable General. There are prints of water and tiny bits of mud where Alexander had made his way, ending right at the man himself as he stands center to the small room, eyeing the leaf on the wobbly stand with such a confused and almost weary look. “I see you held onto that, your Excellency. If you collect more, you may claim the wilderness of America crowned you herself.”

“I long for no crown,” he reminds him, even if the idea of being wreathed in autumn leaves was appealing in some fanciful fashion. He steps tentative towards Alexander, his chest beating harder when the young man does not step away, but instead guides his eyes back to him. “Come, take off that wet uniform and dry yourself,” he says - softly - as he reaches out and - with the most intense care and gentleness - brushes a stray lock of curling hair back from Alexander’s cheek.

The man ducks back immediately, arms wrapping only tighter around himself, “Should I strip from wet clothes only to put them back on after?”

“I could procure something for you wear while your uniform dries, my boy.” That earns Washington a bit of a scoff. Nothing too cruel, or at least not as bitter as he was used to from his men, but a very clear comparison between himself and the slight man before him. “Or would you rather work bare for all the men who come for counsel with me to see?” And Alexander’s laughter dies hot in his throat. He takes the towel from Washington and starts about unbuttoning his wet clothing. Making himself busy, Washington does his best to not look - but enough heavy fabric has hit the floor for him to count and be too aware that Alexander is behind him unbuttoning his thin shirt.

Baring inch after inch of forbidden flesh to the air and Washington grips the shirt in his hand tighter and regulates his breathing in an attempt to keep control. “I am not a maiden, sir, you do not need to shield yourself for the sake of propriety.”

Another long, deep breath. “I know, Hamilton. I had simply lost myself in thought,” he says as he turns - after another moment taken to prepare himself for the sight. Alexander had half-turned away from him, his fingers working at the fasteners of his breeches (half-soaked, clinging almost obscenely to his skin) and his entire upper-half bare. Washington’s eyes rake down the length of his back ashamedly, he is lean that is true. But the shape, so clear defined by his fine length of muscle and bone - he is small but filled with a compact strength that most men would long for and there is no saving his splintering soul when his breeches loosen and go slack and inch by inch the round of his rear is exposed as well.

No. No, Washington’s eyes snap to the floor. “What has you so enraptured, your Excellency?” Alexander asks - as though the little minx has no idea what he does to him (he doesn’t, part of him wants to cry out, he has no idea how just the way he tries to hide the bump at the top of his nose is so painfully endearing.) and casts a glance back over his shoulder. “Is it more complaints from Congress?”

Yes, he wants to lie. No, he wants to say in earnest honesty. “Reports from Knox.” A lie it is. He feels nearly sick, “nothing of import, of course, but as well they seem to have caught my attentions for the time being.” He will not look up until the shirt is taken from his grip and Alexander has had the proper time to slip it over his head. Only then does he glance back up at the man and Washington would have preferred he stay nude - his reaction to the sight is ungentlemanly at its absolute best. Alexander, his queue undone and hair damp around his neck all but engulfed by an old hunting shirt far, far too large for him. The sleeves roll well past his fingertips and he is taking the time to roll them up but it does nothing for the way the coattails hang past his knees and make him look so very, very small and make Washington feel very, very large.

“I am afraid that is all I can manage, though if you wish to remain in here while your clothes dry - I suppose a fire in the hearth will not be unwanted.”

Alexander has affixed him with another one of his particular looks, lingering for a moment as Washington busies himself with the fire. There is a rug before it, close enough for one to sit without being too hot. “Will you join me? “ Alexander asks, settling himself atop the rug and quickly pooling the shirt between his legs to preserve himself,  “I was only out for a few short moments before I was drenched to the core, I doubt any will brave that storm while it lasts.”

“You did,” Washington points out, sitting beside him none the less.

“You sent for me. Tilghman was not pleased, I believe he has elected to trade tales with the Marquis instead of wandering back to his own tent at the current.” A beat. “I did not thank you, your Excellency, for being so caring with me last night. You did not have to leave me with your cloak had you needed it.”

Washington takes the time to consider this, to consider the mirroring distance between them now and what was then and sighs, “I know I did not, but you seemed so at ease - not a common look from you - I did not wish to disturb you.” A contemplative quiet falls over the pair, not uncomfortable or at all filled with a disdain or a fear, instead just thought. Silent, and as warm as the crackling fire before them, Alexander leans against him, though with much less sureness than he had the night before, as remarkable as that may be.

“Sir?” Alexander asks after a lifetime has passed, his voice hardly audible above the beating of Washington’s heart and the steady pounding of rain against the window.

“Yes, Alexander?” He responds after a moment, just as quietly. He looks down at him, where his shoulder leans ever so softly against him and his cheek brushes against the shoulders of Washington's jacket. The man against him shivers, full-body and Washington can feel it as much as he can see it and maybe he is far more chilled than Washington would think - the thin shirt not enough. He want’s to fix this, to strip off his own jacket and lay it over the boy's narrow shoulders and curl him close and let him leech the heat from Washington’s own body but he cannot bring himself to move. To tear away from that body and relinquish that faint touch of pressure - possibly for good - was too much of a risk.

Though, belatedly he realizes it might be the use of his name. Alexander - it falls so naturally from his lips, a name he has only snapped in rage to counter a loose form of formality and familiarity in simply his surname or one of those little nicknames the other officers had gifted him. Whatever the reason for this reaction, it seems to knock the words from Alexander as he withholds his response and Washington only has one course of action from there, turning and letting the boy flinch back for a moment before he settles one large, rough finger under the point of his chin.

His heart is racing too hard in his old chest as he tilts the young face up to his own, “speak your mind, Alexander.” By God, his voice hangs hardly above a whisper in the moment, lingering like an echo of desire. The young man doesn't - and frustration builds like a fire in the pit of Washington's stomach. He pleads silently - speak, speak. Say what you want, use those words that never cease, that tongue that never stops, those lips that won't remain still - tell him to stop, tell him to release you, to never lay a finger on you again. It wouldn’t be the first time Alexander has snapped at his commanding officer, why should he stop now? Why must his eyes flicker with a darkness, why must his fingers creep closer and closer and his skin feel so right to his touch?

“Tell me to stop.” At first Washington nearly recoils, his own thoughts coming forth shaped from Alexander’s lips, “Tell me to stop, sir, and I will. I - you must.”

“Stop what?” The question sounds so weak to Washington’s own ears, strangled with the air in his lungs and all he can focus on is the wet slide of Alexander’s tongue dragging along his lower lip as he readiest himself to answer.

The boy breathes, only ever leaning closer - his hand just a fraction of a hair's breadth from his leg, “Tell me to stop wanting you, your Excellency, tell me that you do not want me as I wish you to. Tell me you see me as nothing more than a tool in this war and that you would never deign yourself to lie with me - please, so that I may stop wanting you. Tell me to stop so that I will not kiss you.”

For all the consideration Washington could have taken into his reply, to better ease the wild-eyed fear and anxieties that flooded Alexander’s eyes, perhaps he could have conjured up a better response than a brusque, “no,” and the press of his lips against a pair so, so much sweeter. Chapped and surprised, but sweet and Washington never, not in every sinful dream he had, could have imagined it to be like this. For Alexander to nearly pull back in shock only to launch himself forward as soon as he could, slender arms wrapping around Washington’s neck in a blur of movement as the smaller man came frighteningly near toppling them both. But he cannot bring himself to care, not when his own hands fly quickly to steady the man at the hips and - well - remain there. Cupping the slight frame in his own wide palms, he drags Alexander to him without ever disengaging him at the lips. Oh no, if he could fight the entire war without ever having to slide himself free from this hold he would.

Alexander kisses like he tackles nearly every other passion in his life, with an all-consuming flame and power. He treats it like a fight, teeth catching at Washington’s lower lip with the curl of a very, very familiar and very, very smug-feeling grin pressed into the embrace. That little minx.  He can finally disengage one hand from where it was rather content at the sharp edge of Alexander’s hip to instead drift into half-dried and half-curled hair, letting the strands drift down through and over his fingers before offering a sharp and insistent tug. He catalogues the gasp and weak groan Alexander lets slip for later, because at the current moment his mind is very occupied with guiding the small body back down onto his back, hovering himself over him.

His legs part immediately, letting Washington settle between them as he re-adjusts the pair, taking both his hands back to do so. And the sight, oh, this is a sight worth fighting a war for. Alexander’s hair splayed out under his head, his cheeks hot with a flush, his eyes dark with want and lips already pinkened and a little slick. One hand propping beside him, the other gently nudging up the edges of the borrowed shirt to brush against him - oh God his hand slips down along the length of Alexander’s thigh, skin smooth and soft and warm and he could live between these thighs were he permitted. Sell Mount Vernon to the highest bidder, throw all of his Earthly possessions into the Potomac - this would be his new home, nestled between strong, lean legs that spread around him as though he were just made to be kneeling there.

“I am sensing an unfair division here, sir,” there is no worry or fear in Alexander’s voice - just a playful tease but it still has Washington pulling back. “You see, I am hardly clothed at all and you are still in your full uniform. Not that you having me in your full uniform has not been… quite the dream of mine-”

“Has it?”   
“ _ But _ ,” Alexander's hands come to rest over Washington’s chest, dragging down over the length of his uniform, “I long to know what lies under this as well.” His thin, delicate fingers dip gently between the buttons of his waistcoat, slipping just faintly down. He wouldn’t brush skin like this yet, but just the gentle insinuation that soon he would be was enough to draw a shiver down Washington’s spine.

And yet, still he must ask, “Are you certain - I will not be offended should you tell me you do not want this, Alexander.” While he speaks, Alexander’s fingers have gone to unbutton the first button of his waistcoat. As distracting as it is, he tries his best to ignore it as Alexander moves for another. “I do not wish you feel forced by my position as your commander.” Another one undone as brilliant, sharp eyes watch him with one cocked brow.

“I do not feel forced,” he says, already well on his way to the third button before Washington uses his hand not holding himself up to stop him. His rough, large fingers wrap around those thin-boned ones, pulling it away to an affronted noise by the man beneath him. The contrast is so very clear once again, his hand almost fully enclosed by Washington’s without hardly trying. He could squeeze, twitch and crush each delicate bone into powder - destroy him with hardly an ounce of effort and that thought is truly, honestly terrifying.

It is the same sensation he fought to overcome with Martha, and now he wars it with Alexander as well. He shifts his hold on the man's hand, pressing his thumb gently against his warm palm, stroking. “You must understand my trepidation, Alexander. I will not proceed with any acts you should not want of me; you will tell me should you desire me to stop, yes?”

“I will, sir,” the playful glint in his eyes softened to something warm if only for a moment, before returning with a gentle, curling smirk. Alexander’s hand slips from Washington’s hold onto to grasp around the man's thick fingers and drag them down. Washington’s hand is guided down with Alexander’s voice asking, “does this feel uncertain to you?”

And no, it does not. Under the borrowed hunting shirt and now Washington’s hand, Alexander’s cock is heavy and hard and it most certainly seems certain. Especially as he curls his fingers around the shaft, smooth, hot flesh twitching in his hand as Alexander mewls and presses his hips up just a fraction. He strokes him once, experimentally, and the sweet gasp that leaves the young man's lips is something for Washington to decidedly cherish. As is the whine that he gives when Washington takes his hand back and sits back on his heels.

Alexander pushes himself up on his hands, opening his mouth to vocalize his complaint again before his eyes fixate back on Washington’s hands. He deftly finishes unbuttoning his waistcoat, stripping himself of his jacket and then it in quick succession before the rippling waves of want and needs that boil in his blood bring him back down to crush his lips to Alexander’s again.

He returns the kiss with a cresting passion and Washington gleefully swallows the moan the man gives and uses it to fuel the fire in his blood still. Lips give and part at the first hint of tongue and by God how could a mouth so filled with bitter words and sharp, stinging insults taste so sweet? He’s cupping his jaw on either side, holding him firmly in place to devour him. Each sound drips from Alexander’s lips, a litany of moans and whimpers as Washington’s teeth find the soft, plump flesh of his lower lip with a gentle bite, only to suck the pain away just a moment later.

In the time it takes them both to suck in a lungful of hair, Alexander has clambered into his lap - nudging Washington back to sit as smooth legs bracket his own thighs and his lovely body presses so firmly against his own. If he can feel Alexander’s ardour pressing hot and hard against his abdomen, then surely the man in his lap can feel his up against his rear - a theory only proved as Alexander dives back for another kiss just as he grinds his hips down against Washington’s groan.

This time, it is Washington who gives a rumbling, low groan into the kiss - the perfect weight in his lap enough to draw sparks up his spine but he is not some drunk in the back of a tavern, rutting up on a stranger to stain his breeches.

There is a more gentlemanly approach about these things and - despite how it makes his hips twitch to push up each time Alexander rolls his hips forward and gasps into their kiss - he will go about it properly. The first step so to not be engaging in such activities on a rough cabin floor or a dusty rug - but instead the bed that is so very close. He can feel Alexander's jack-rabbit pulse thudding quick and hard against his own chest - he is nervous. Excited, but the way his body twitches and jumps with each movement Washington gives is signal enough that despite all the bravado and desperation - the boy is still at least marginally frightened. Perhaps of rejection, perhaps of the pain - Washington could suss out the reason and soothe his anxieties once they are upon a softer surface than the floor.

With this in mind, and a plentiful amount of regret, Washington pulls his lips from Alexander’s, if only to inform him, “Not here, no no - the bed. It will be far more comfortable.”

“If we must move, then I must let you go and - speaking honestly, sir - I do not wish to release you at this moment or any soon.” Alexander practically pouts at him, his arms still locked around Washington’s neck, only now the very fingers that had so enticed the General were running up and down the length of his neck - making him shiver and his cock ache in his breeches. Perhaps he was wrong, perhaps it was him who should be worried about seductive, conniving young men and their very pretty faces and very fine hands.

“We must, though I swear that once we make it to the bed you shall not need to be rid of me until you desire it,” he says, and it seems to quell something in Alexander enough for him to take his hands back as he delivers a swift, chaste kiss to Washington’s own lips. And then another - and another until Washington has to nudge him gently to stand before he slowly creaks his way up as well. “Rid yourself of that shirt, then make yourself comfortable in the bed.”

This time, he lets himself watch, Alexander’s smirk vanishing from his sight as the man turns away from him again as he lifts the shirt over his head. He may be deprived of the view of Alexander’s abdomen and face - but the sight of his flexing, strong back is enough to make the core of Washington’s entire being throb. Smooth skin, speckled by occasional scars or little marks stretched down the length of his back, curving into a very fine and firm rear that is very much making Washington itch to touch it. To run his fingers down the backs of his thighs, his well-shaped calves, up to his narrow shoulders. He could massage away the stress and the work from his shoulders, turn this Colonel into a puddle beneath him before he dares to even touch him - again - as a lover would.

Thin hips give just the faintest of sways - taunting, tantalizing - as Alexander makes his way to the bed, fingers running along the edge of the headboard as he clearly contemplates his next words. Carefully, like he never does. “How shall I lie for you? Would you prefer me on my back, my knees or my side?”

He wants to tell him to pick himself, to chose how he wishes to lie - that he could not care just so long as he may be permitted to have his hands upon his body. But he does not, stripping from his shirt, he crosses over to the bed as well, “Your back, if you would.” Alexander hesitates, but complies. Lying out on his back, he crosses his arms over himself - as though to cover as much as he could with thin limbs. Washington is quick to strip from his boots and breeches - catching the way Alexander's eyes flicker to him and then away again, catching the way his throat works in thick swallow.

It is a wonder that he could be so silent now, but Washington watches once he’s divested his final bits of clothing and Alexander's eyes dip down to his groin then snap away immediately. It would seem his previous assessment was correct but the man doesn’t flinch away when Washington climbs into bed beside him, kneeling, and slides a hand along the man's hip. In fact, quite the opposite, Alexander turns back to him, raising his eyes to meet Washington's as the older man lowers his voice, “Do you want me to stop, Alexander?”

“No, I only - it is just…” He swallows back what he wishes to say, taking in a breath that shudders on the exhale, “I have laid with men before - not many and not in such the position in which I will be. Please, sir, do not stop.”

Of course, Washington works his thumb in soft, soothing circles over Alexander’s hip - right under the rising bone as he shifts and slots his body alongside the young man's, “I will be tender with you, I believe I have been told I can be quite the gentle love when I wish to be. Despite what appearances may suggest, of course.” He earns a chuckle, slightly strained still, from Alexander’s lips and hands back upon his own skin.

They’re warm, one slipping up along Washington’s side as he shifts to face him better, wrapping a leg up around his hip to bring them closer together, the other coming up to cup his jaw. Washington presses into it gently, tilting to kiss that open palm - his eyes slipping closed as he presses another soft one to each individual finger twice. He places another in the center of his hand, letting his eyes crack open to see Alexander staring at him with such awe and reverence that it burns deep into his chest. “Sir?” He asks, though it is clear there isn’t much on the other end of that query so instead of responding Washington elects to kiss him again.

This time they slip immediately deeper, tongues slipping together in a languid, lazy synchronization - groins pressing flush to grind together, interlacing their kisses with low, sharp gasps and groans of pleasure. Needy whimpers fall between them from Alexander’s lips, matching with rumbling growls of want from Washington’s as Alexander’s leg hooks higher to bring them closer and Washington’s hand drops to his hip to bring them together faster.

And it feels so good, Alexander’s cock pressing against him - hot and hard, head wet with precome and dragging across Washington’s taut stomach. His own grinds against the warm skin of that flat belly, less defined and slightly softer and perfect for him to press his hips hard against a few times to listen to him squeak with surprise. He needs him - needs to be inside him - and he slips his hand down from that hip to take a handful of that ass he had so longed to touch before. Fitting so perfectly in his palm, he gives it a little squeeze and digs his fingers in as he pulls Alexander closer for one last taste of that delightful friction before he lets him go and begins to shift over him.

The message is very clearly delivered to his aide and Alexander rolls back onto his back, hooking his other thigh up with the first - ankles locking behind his back to keep him from fleeing, as though Washington would have any intention of leaving this lovely sight. Well - for more than a moment at least. His breath is coming harder than he remembers, but so is Alexander's - his entire body warm to the touch wherever Washington touches him. “Alexander,” he whispers - like a prayer - into the space between them.

“Yes, sir?” His voice is more wrecked, rusted and rough with desire but his eyes are so bright, so darkly sparkling with want.

God, how Washington loves him. He shouldn’t, he knows, but that cannot stop him from feeling it, that burning in his chest that he already knows means he would give anything for this man. He strokes his cheek gently, shifting his weight to one hand to do so, Alexander responds by nuzzling his palm and it makes that ache in his chest flare up once more. “If you can reach the table, there is a tub of ointment - it will make this much easier.”

Understanding flickers in place of affection in his eyes for a moment and Alexander has to untangle his legs - very unfortunately - to stretch far enough up to reach it, but the little sound of victory he makes when his hand finds it is very much worth it. A small, hardly breathed, “ah-ha,” that warms Washington’s heart. He holds it, triumphant, to Washington who simply shakes his head instead, “Set it aside a moment, if you would. Nearby so that you may hand it to me when I ask. Now, allow me.” There’s a pause while he pushes himself up, slinking down Alexander’s body. He places a tender kiss to the side of his neck (listening to his sharp intake of breath) and then down to his shoulder. His skin is burning, feverishly hot to the point that Washington would worry if he did not already know the cause - but it is perfect under his lips as he trails with them down to his chest, a hand sliding along the smooth expanse with him. That quickened pulse hasn’t slowed, but Alexander is pushing more and more into his hands and mouth.

Changing his pace, Washington drags his tongue along a few inches of unmarked and unmarred skin, tasting sweat and skin until he flicks the wet, hot muscle over one hardened nipple. Another keening noise echos from the back of Alexander’s throat, so he does it again and again, taking it between his lips and working the nub until the man is practically panting beneath him. However, he makes sure not to ignore the other, pinching it gently between his fingers before rolling it - making Alexander arch against him with a needy gasp that rises before crescendoing in a weak cry when his teeth close around the one he is working with his tongue.

When Alexander is bucking his hips up, seeking more friction desperately, Washington decides it’s time to move on. “No no no, don’t stop,” the man whines when Washington kisses lower, though his complains lessen when he moves lower. Tracing the contours of his lean muscles with his tongue and lips, making him writhe and gasp whenever a particularly sensitive patch of skin and nerves is hit. Washington quickly learns that should he suck at the side of the man's ribcage, Alexander will twist and his cock will twitch with need - if he mouths along his hipbone, he will buck and beg for  _ more, please by God, more, sir, more more more please, more. _

Sliding his tongue down into the crease between hip and thigh makes Alexander whine on some choked gasp and finally, Washington speaks what is really on his mind, “You are beautiful, Alexander. Plead for me to go faster all you wish but I wish to know every inch if your body.”

“I am… not you, sir,” he says after a moment, propping himself up on his elbows. “If you let me, I would lavish every inch of you with my tongue and lips - just as you are doing me, but you deserve it much more than I.”

That strikes something deep inside of Washington and he shakes his head from where he is crouched between Alexander’s legs, “Nonsense. You deserve this, Alexander, more than even I do. Every inch of you is worthy of praise and the most,” a pause for a kiss to the highest point of his inner thigh, “intent,” another just a millimeter lower, “affections. Now I shall not hear another word of you thinking you do not deserve my attentions, unless you are genuine in your distress and discomfort, of course.”

Silence and then a swallow and then, “yes sir. I apologize.”

“You have nothing to apologize for - now hush, my boy. We would not want to linger so long that the British win this war while we are locked away in our passions.” With that, he goes back to his previous attentions. Kisses and bites and sucks all down Alexander’s thigh as the man muffles whimpers and cries into his fist. He bruises just above his knee with his teeth and even the hand was not enough to muffle Alexander’s blissful groan of pleasure - a note he takes in his mind and a theory he tests by sinking sharp teeth into the meat of his thigh, higher.

He twists this time, his cry taking shape in a vulgar phrase. Washington bites him again, this time as a reprimand on the edge of a reminder of, “keep your tongue tamed, Alexander.”

“Sorry,” he pants, “sorry - you are very good at this, sir.” A glance up shows both his dark eyes as well as his heavy cock resting flushed against his stomach and he is struck with an idea - but it will wait, Alexander will not fade from him just yet, he has time. 

For once in their lives, they have time and Washington is going to make the most of it as wind whips at the house and rain still pounds at the rooftop. Mouthing along the edges of Alexander’s calf, Washington presses a gentle kiss to his delicate ankle and then another to the arch of his foot. That gets him half a muffled laugh and a twitch back of his leg, so he makes sure to repeat the gesture again on the other, working his way in reverse in just the same as he did to Alexander’s other leg. All the way back up until he’s lapping at a bite high on his inner thigh.

It will bruise, all the marks that dot the man beneath him will - painting his skin to look like the skies roaring and rippling above them. He will be a mosaic of blues and purples and dark grays, stained beautifully with Washington’s own handiwork that will be felt for days and seen by only those privy to his more intimate places for much longer. Washington hopes with all he has that he will see them again, see this sight again.

He cannot worry - he will not worry.

Bottling the thought back, he presses his lips to the bone of his hip again, kissing him lovingly before he finally moves to make good of his earlier thought, wrapping his hand around Alexander’s cock. The man hisses, still vocal as ever, but not so much as when Washington drags his tongue along the shaft that is still exposed. Alexander swears and bucks his hips up before Washington lays a thick forearm over them to pin the man to the bed. “Sir, this is - this is - you need not -”

“I wish to,” Washington promises, repeating the long, hot drag of his tongue, “do not hold back - I want you to be so heavy with pleasure and need that you are boneless and aflame with the most raw and intense of wonderful sensations.” Not waiting for an answer, Washington takes the head of Alexander’s cock into his mouth, pressing his tongue against the head to taste the bitter fluids that had leaked from him already against the salt of his sweat and skin. Alexander groans above him with each gentle suckling and stroke of his fist. He works him like this for a moment or two before slipping off to say, “please hand me the tin, if you would.”

“Of course, sir,” Alexander says - but it takes him a moment to recover himself enough to actually do so. Washington doesn’t speak to that, instead he keeps it close as he goes back to his ministrations. Lapping up the side of his cock, kissing at him while a second hand cups and strokes his stones. He does not suck him back into his mouth, however, instead he keeps with the long strokes of his tongue, delving lower until the hand on his sack is replaced by lips and tongue. He moves his touch to his thighs, pushing Alexander’s legs higher and apart to better give himself access as he presses his mouth to the sensitive patch of skin. Alternating between open-mouthed kisses and rolls of his tongue, he slowly, slowly makes his way until he’s panting hot and heavy across Alexander’s hole.

The man's legs drape over his shoulders, so clearly trembling with need and want and once again, Alexander feels the need to speak up - voice far less sure. “As much as I detest the idea of being so - please tell me that I am wrong in thinking what you are about to do.” Washington chuckles, arms wrapping around Alexander’s legs to dance his fingertips along his inner thighs so gently - holding him so he does not twitch to close them around his head and smother him.

“Do you trust me to make you feel as exquisite as you deserve?”

“Yes, but - “

“Then relax, my dear Alexander.” He waits no longer, pressing forward and letting his tongue pass hot and wet and heavy over his hole. If the noise the man makes is any sort of signifier as to how much he likes it, then he considers this a victory and repeats the motion again, slower this time. He can feel his hole twitching and his body reacting to the strange sensation with each lap and drag increases the pressure and the speed. He shifts slowly to focus more against his hole, changing up his tongue with his lips, slipping and kissing and pressing in time with each of Alexander's sweet, sweet pleas for more. It would seem his trepidation at the activity vanished, and instead his breathing is loud and rough and ragged by the time Washington presses the very tip of his tongue past his muscle, retreating soon after to continue licking and kissing him.

Letting one leg go, he reaches for the ointment blindly, finding the small tin after a few moments as he alternates. Licking, kissing, pressing his tongue a fraction deeper, pulling back. Licking, kissing, pressing - all repeated deeper and harder and faster as saliva slips slick down his chin and coats his reddened lips and all he can feel, taste and breathe is  Alexander. Alexander Alexander Alexander - he could remain here forever, listening to him plead for more, listening to him whimper and whine and moan so loudly that it is a wonder the entire camp hasn’t rushed to their room.

Thank God for the storm so that they may bask in their sins.

He can unscrew the lid with one hand - the ointment typically used for much more innocuous activities but that can be ignored and the tub can be replaced as he scoops a rather generous amount onto his fingers. Slipping his mouth back up to the skin behind his balls, Washington is quick to replace the loss against Alexander’s hole with his fingers, smearing the cool substance against it and gently rubbing the pads of his fingers against that same place he’d been tasting over and over and over again.

“Please,” Alexander whimpers, his voice thick, heavy and rasping with each needy, desperate gasp of air, “please, sir, please give me your fingers - your fingers, your tongue, your cock, anything, anything please, sir. I need you, I need it, I need you inside of me. I - God, please, I need you so very, very much.”

Who could deny something like that? Washington was a strong man, but Alexander brings him to ruin. With an agonizing slowness, he presses a single thick finger into his tight entrance. He’s hardly down to the first knuckle when he stops to kiss and lap around it, soothing away the burn he’s sure Alexander must be feeling. He keeps that up as he sinks the rest of his finger into that nearly painfully tight heat - he clenches and clamps around him and it makes Washington throb and ache to think of what that smooth fire will feel like around his cock.

He has to count in his own mind - calming himself to avoid simply giving in and shoving himself so deep into Alexander and instead focus on slowly twisting the singular finger and withdrawing an inch or so only to push it back in. He works him with the one, pillowing his cheek on Alexander’s thigh as he mutters soft, “You take me so well, Alexander. You’re so tight around my finger, so hot - like a hearth, I can only imagine what it will feel like for me to finally, fully penetrate you. Deep inside you, feeling you from the inside - all of you, a perfect fit for me. I can already tell you are perfect for me, my dear boy, perhaps I should invest in a mirror for you to see this sight as well. Watching your body take just my finger is - I could never tire of this sight, of watching the way you consume me, by God, you are beautiful.”

Alexander chokes on something that could have been a groan or a sob of pleasure - but the sound is half buried in the pillows and his knuckles are stark against skin as he’s fisted his hands in the bedclothes. He waits until his thrashing has subsided enough and his body has relaxed enough to gently rub the tip of a second finger against him. He doesn’t even have to ask before a gasping voice pleads, “Please, please please - in me, I need it in me - I need more, please, please.” So he does as he’s begged to, slowly pressing a second in along the first.

“Your fingers,” Alexander manages, rough and grinding, “they’re so thick and perfect, they stretch me in all the right ways, deep inside. You do not know how often I fantasized about your hands, about these fingers doing this to me, I never thought you could drive a man so wild with nothing but a hand but here you,” he has to pause to grind out a rippling moan - Washington twists his fingers at the peak of it to make it double in both volume and length, “here you are. It’s like you’ve lit every inch of me on fire, I need you inside me, I need your cock - I need you to fuck me so long and deep, sir, please, please. I need you to split me upon your length like I am nothing but an object, I need it, I need you.”

This time he doesn’t give, doesn’t crack under the pressure and instead shakes his head, “I am going to take you slowly - let you feel all of me. Make sure you are thoroughly ready for me, this time I will not hurt you - however, if you wish for me to take you roughly, throw you down upon the bed and pound myself into you until you’re wailing with pleasure and have spent yourself so thoroughly that you cannot hold your own body up, I will the next time you lie with me. Tonight, however, I will take my time with you. String you out with pleasure and nothing but, learn what brings you the most wonderful oblivion so that I may wring ecstasy from you like water from a rag.”

He spreads his fingers as he says this, slowly as he pulls them back and then back in again and again until he feels that Alexander could take a third finger inside him. He applies a liberal amount more of the ointment with his second hand before attempting it. Soon, perhaps too soon, Alexander is pressing back against him, attempting more, attempting to set his own quick and jerky pace. “I do not wish for you to injure yourself,” he reminds as he settles him with one slightly slick hand upon his hip, he does however, accept this as sign of what he wants, what he needs and twists his fingers harder inside him.

He tenses around him and writhes as he cries out in a beautiful bliss, letting Washington twist and spread and stretch him to his liking - he deems Alexander ready once he’s fought off the hand on his hip to push back onto the fingers with a hungry sort of desperation and finally he lets all three slip from that beautiful heat, feeling slightly bereft. Though it is nothing compared to what Alexander must be feeling, as his hold clenches around nothing, desperate to something to fill it once more and Washington is more than willing to be exactly that. Slipping back up the body he’s already mapped out yet still fills him with a wondrous awe, he settles himself close - stroking himself with a palm full of the cool substance to ready himself.

“Do you wish to remain like this? It will be less painful should you be on your hands and knees,” he says, softly, between gentle kisses. Alexander responds by draping a leg around his waist and pulling him in closer and nipping gently at Washington’s lips.

“I will not be able to do this if I am on my knees, nor will you be able to see my face contort in the pleasure you’ve promised me,” the man says and Washington agrees silently. He’s imagined in his most sinful of dreams what it would look like, and he can only wait to see it himself. Washington guides himself to position, pressing and rubbing the head of his cock against Alexander’s entrance. He kisses him as he sinks in - or at least tries to. But Alexander is gasping and groaning and crying out and Washington has surely forgotten how to breathe as he is engulfed in the flames of this body.

Unbelievably tight and hot and perfect it takes every inch of his willpower to not slam into him. Trembling with restraint and need and want and desire, he wishes he could control himself enough to kiss Alexander but the two just pant hotly together. Sharing air in the hair's breadth between their lips, Washington drops one hand to the back of Alexander’s thigh - tilting his body just right to fit himself as deep inside of this beautifully tight body as he could. Flush together - he can’t tell if the heartbeat he feels is his own, or Alexanders. And if it’s the second, if it’s coming from the chest against his own or the flesh he’s buried in.

It’s perfect, truly in the moment - the howling winds silenced and not even the old house creaked. They were one, and Washington could hardly believe it and, so it seemed, neither could Alexander. One of the man slender arms wrapped around his neck, lifting himself just faintly so that his hand could dip between them - brushing the tips of beautiful fingers where they were joined. Was it Washington who was breathing so very hard, or was it Alexander? It could have even very well been the both of them.

Eyes slightly damp, but tears unshed, Alexander steadies himself with several even breaths while Washington remains painfully still inside him - waiting for approval to move. The smaller man shifts, winches and then his body tightens around him all at once and it’s almost too much to bear. A growl ripples up from Washington’s chest and the burst of icy-hot pleasure ripping through him is enough to jolt him back to reality. He crushes his lips against Alexander’s in a hot, filthy display of a kiss, tasting his moans on his tongue as the man leans back against the bed once more - taking his hand back to clamber at Washington’s back instead. “Move, sir,” he manages between relentless kisses, “please, move - please.”

With Alexander adjusted to the intrusion, Washington rolls his hips in short, quick movements - letting him writhe and wince beneath him, “shall I stop?” He asks once, but Alexander shakes his head and pleads with him to continue, to remain slow, but continue. And slow he goes, bodies growing slick with sweat and the room filling with the desperate creaks of the bed and the return of the rain against the windows. It’s a soft pattering, as rhythmic as Washington’s hips as he slowly draws himself most of the way out and sinks back into that desperate, yearning body again.

If he could - he would sustain himself on nothing but the noises Alexander made alone. He was like a symphony, the beating of his heart like a wardrum, the rattling gasps and moans - a choir to sing praises to the God that would allow Washington to bare witness to such a thing. This angel delivered into his bed, delivered below him with his hair spread upon the pillows as a halo - if it did not break laws and morals and the barest sense of decency and modesty, Washington would call for a painter immediately.

An oil painting of Alexander like this, lips eyes closed and kiss-swollen lips parted while bruises blossomed on his thighs in the shape of Washington’s mouth. That way he could look upon him like this, open and beautiful and at ease. The winds howled and roared, masking their noises of pleasure, as his pace picks up, hunching himself over Alexander as he pleads for it faster, harder, faster, faster, harder, deeper and he gives it to him. And gives it to him, and gives it to him until he’s got a bone-jarring grip on the man's hips and a mind set abuzz and aflame with nothing but pleasure and Alexander and Alexander and Alexander and the sound of skin slapping on skin and it’s so very much, so much - more than he could have imaged it would be. Their bodies slick with sweat sliding Alexander’s hands until he’s digging his nails in and clawing desperate lines down Washington’s back but he could not  _ care _ of the marks they would leave. All he knows is the fire they trail and the way it makes his blood sing with a rush he hasn’t felt in far too long.

He knows enough, wriggling a hand between their bodies to stroke off the man with the same quick and snapping pace of his hips, he whispers encouragement that he cannot remember saying, but the way it makes them groan and the man twist beneath him is all he needs. Alexander wails with pleasure, as he reaches his peak and tumbles hard over the edge, his cries crescendo with the clap of thunder and the crackling lightning that rises outside - and he tenses. Entire body going taut in one singular moment, the vice-hold around Washington’s cock impossibly tight and hot and Alexander’s seed is splattered across  his own chest and Washington’s hand and it’s all he needs. Every sensation is brought to a knife's edge sharpness at once, the sound of Alexander’s ragged and quick breaths, the feeling of him tight around his cock, the feeling of his heels slipping where they’re linked behind his back, of his nails biting crescent shapes into his shoulderblades - everything.

He stills at the apex of a deep thrust, pressing his forehead against Alexander’s collar, panting hard and rough - half aware he was whispering a shorter version of the man's name again and again and again,  _ Alex, Alex, Alex.. _ . Trembling as he spills himself deep into this willing, godly body, he sucks in air like a drowning man but all he can breathe in is Alexander. This is all he is in the moment, here. He remains inside him for as long as he can, kissing hot and languid once again from Alexander’s lips to his jaw and throat and collar and back again.

“You are magnificent,” he whispers to him, whispers against him, “Superb, brilliant, beautiful - Alexander.” His name falls from his tongue for what could have been the hundredth time, but each time it felt so right to speak. With reverence he repeats himself, “Alexander,” and finds the man's eyes with his own. His eyes are filled with the same emotion that wells so often in Washington’s heart, and he cannot help but kiss him again. Sweet and chaste as he inevitably softens and must slide free from that addictive heat and shift his weight off of the man and back to the bed beside him.

Alexander gives an uncomfortable wiggle, as one does when being so suddenly empty after being so filled, but slides a hand down his body again. He doesn’t see what in particular that hand is doing, Washington is far too busy peppering the side of the man's face with kisses to take note, but when it returns, the pads of his fingers are slick with the ointment and Washington’s seed. “I longed for this for so long,” he says, contemplating his own fingers, “now that I have gotten an example of what it would be like to lie with you - I fear I will want it more and more.”

“So long as you want me, Alexander, I will be yours,” he promises, his fingers wrap easily around that delicate wrist and he brings the two fingers to his lips. He slips them both into his mouth at once, suckling them clean to a whine from Alexander. The taste of himself is far from pleasant, but it is worth the look upon the man's face - half shock and half offense.

“And if I wanted to taste you?” He asks, affronted and Washington laughs - fully from his chest, the sound so unaccustomed to being vocalized that it almost sounded completely foreign even to his own ears. But Alexander was not deterred, “to take what another man longs to taste is a rudeness that I thought would never dare tarnish the reputation of a General of such a caliber.” He’s huffing, but grinning, “I suppose I will just have to wait until you have properly recovered and then draw it directly from the source.”

“Oh my dear Alexander, there is plenty more where that had come from,” Washington says, sliding his hand down and outside the storms had lulled a second time in the recent hours - but the wind is picking up once again and in the distance thunder and lightening wars in the greyscale skies rolling towards the battered and wary camp. Somewhere the sun would set again, the same calm ending as the night before, but inside a the largest room in a house, a leaf is fluttering on a wobbling side table with the brush of a gentle draft and a man’s mouth has gone slack with pleasure once again, slender leg draping across the elbow of a most esteemed General while he whispers the most vulgar and sinful of promises to a young aide-de-camp.

**Author's Note:**

> I sustain myself wholly off of kudos and comments (if you liked it, I mean, if you didn't don't feel obligated) and congratulations for sifting through 13k words of cuddles and porn and talk of feelings!
> 
> If you want to scream at me or give me prompts or tell me all the things that I wanna hear you can do so on [Tumblr](http://tooeasilyconsidered.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/nimravinedae)


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